


Do You Want Me To Prove It To You?

by theclouddetective



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: ???this is really trash uuh, Acceptance, Body Worship, Fluff, Gay, LGBTQ Character, M/M, Neck Kissing, Reader-Insert, Trans Male Character, i'll probably do a second smut chapter at some point but idk, there aren't enough trans reader fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5355050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclouddetective/pseuds/theclouddetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're out, you're proud, and you're- desperately alone. Years of covering up and feeling wrong has left you feeling lonely and unwanted- that is, until one of your best friends pays a visit and makes sure you know just how desirable you are.</p>
<p>Trans male reader.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Want Me To Prove It To You?

It's late when you hear the knock on your door, somewhere much closer to morning than night, and you're only half dressed and groggy, hunched in front of the television. As it is very very late and you are very very tired, you elect to ignore it. You start, then groan, as after a short pause, the knocking picks up again. You pull on your sweats and shout something vaguely coherent as you drag yourself across the house, wrenching the door open to find bent elbows, blue hair, and a wide, gap-toothed smile. You guess you should have known it'd be him.

2D, while a kind person and a good friend, was not exactly adept at understanding the hours at which one would commonly be awake. Luckily, you weren't too good at going to bed at a decent hour anyway. You stepped aside, making room for him to enter your shitty apartment, and raised an eyebrow.  
"What's up?" you mumbled, rubbing your jaw as he awkwardly stooped to get through the doorway.  
"Oh! Well, ah, I was around th' place n' I thought you might be in, and here you are!" You nodded, used to this kind of behavior from him.  
"Do you want anything?" you called, making your way to the kitchen and flicking on the lights.  
"Coffee would be nice, 'course I wouldn't mind something stronger if you've got it," he replied, loping behind you. It was no surprise that you did, indeed, have something substantially stronger than coffee in your cupboards, and it wasn't more than a few minutes before you were back to the couch, this time with an assortment of bottles and a lot less legroom. These nights were fairly common, hours of zombie flicks, small talk, and late night cartoons consisting of most of your interactions with him. Or anybody, since it was mostly him you spent time with. 

"So what were you doing out this late? This time, anyway," you asked, picking at the label on your beer bottle absently, halfway through the third film [one you’d seen one too many times, but how could you refuse it when his eyes lit up like that every time you opened the case?]  
"Hm? Oh, just taking a walk, it got a bit loud in the house and I was awfully sick of all the shouting." You hummed and glanced over to where he sat, knees tucked into his chest and some kind of mixed drink in his hand. He swirled it, face washed in blue from the light of the television screen.

"What are you doing up this late?" he asked, turning to you. "I 'spose it's pretty early in the morning, I thought maybe you'dve been asleep by now." You shrug, taking another pull from your bottle.  
"I didn't really feel like sleeping in an empty bed I guess," you admitted. "The television seemed like better company." Silence settled over you again, thick, somehow, on top of the occasional horror movie scream blaring from your television. .

"Mind if I smoke in here?" He's quiet, and already knows the answer, fishing through his jacket for a pack. You shrug.  
"Go ahead." He nods and lights up. It's a few moments before he speaks again, and you can tell he's been mulling over what he wants to say when he nudges you, eyebrows scrunched together.  
"You never seem to have anyone but me over. I don't fink I've actually seen you talk with much of anyone."  
"Guess not," you mutter, leaning over to snag another bottle. Harder than beer, this time, but you’re not complaining. "I'm not really fond of a lot of people."  
"Why not?"  
"Afraid I guess," you shrug, popping the top and hoping he'd change the topic. You were painfully aware of how alone you were, and you supposed it was rather obvious to him now too.  
"Not of me, though?" he prompts.  
“Not- anymore,” you admit, tipping the bottle back. “Why are you asking?”

It’d been awhile since anyone had inquired this far into your relationships- or lack thereof, really. You had to admit, it threw you off a little. Especially coming from one of the few people you could consider a friend. He was only one who still came around, anyway. You’d lost more people than you could count during your transition, and had remained rather uncontacted ever since. 2D was the first- and only, you’ll admit, person you’d met who, knowing you were trans, hadn’t left you. He hadn’t met you before you’d transitioned, and it was a constant relief that he only knew the you that you were actually comfortable being. He shrugs, stubbing out his cigarette and leaning back into the couch, head tipped back.  
“I dunno, just seems to me someone as nice as you would have loads of friends. Should have, anyhow. Guess it just confuses me a bit when I drop by and you always seem to be home alone.” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he starts.  
“N-not that I’m complaining, of course, or c-calling you lazy or anythin’ I just- I mean I appreciate the company! And I’m glad you’re here but-”  
“Thanks, ‘D,” you sigh. “No one’s wanted a lot to do with me since I started T, I guess. Maybe I’m just afraid of people not- liking me so much.” His nose wrinkles, and it takes him a few minutes and half a glass of whatever it is he’s drinking before he can string together a reply, one you can tell he’s struggling over.  
“ ‘At’s stupid,” he finally manages, “N-not being scared or anythin’ just that, ah I just can’t believe something as little as that could make anyone dislike someone like you, you know?”  
“I don’t know, transphobia’s pretty common. I’m lucky enough to have a friend like you.” You cough and turn back to your drink, really, really wanting the subject to just go away. He seems to pick on this, and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees and palms cupping his face.  
“ ’S just ‘at you’re great, you know?”

Your chest warms slightly, whether from the alcohol or the praise or both, you’re not entirely sure, and it’s a pleasant feeling. You smile, an action that your face protests slightly.  
“Thanks,” you mumble. “You’re very kind. It’s- it’s nice.” For some reason, this seems to irritate him, and his eyebrows scrunch together as he flounders about, hands rubbing at each other.  
“I- I’m not just being nice, you know,” he tells you, fingers tapping at his thighs, the couch, anywhere within reach. “I really, really mean it. You’re amazing.” You roll your eyes.  
“You’re overselling it, ‘D, you can stop there.” His frown deepens, and you get the distinct feeling you should be saying something, anything. “It’s not like it’s so bad, really, being a-alone,” you hate hate hate how your voice cracks, but somehow the words continue, despite any and efforts to reel them back in, “-and I figure I’m doing everyone a favor anyway, staying inside, you know, it’s not like I’m much to look at, and e-even if I was I doubt anyone would want to have anything to do with m-” his frown, now carving deep lines in his face, cuts you off. The silence is beginning to pound in your head now, or maybe it’s your pulse, hammering away at your regret for ever having said anything to him.

“Do you think you’re not attractive?” He whispers, and you shiver. You can’t make eye contact with him, so you keep your eyes fixed on your drink. Cold fingers brush against your arm, then your jaw, turning your head. “Look at me.” You do, and it’s a marvel you don’t start sputtering. His thumb comes up to trace your cheek, and his face is contorted in some kind of intense concentration, like what he has to say is massively, earth-shatteringly important for you to understand.  
“You’re amazing, okay? A-and anyone who says otherwise is daft. Just, just plain stupid. Okay?” You swallow, and he drops his hands to his legs again, face relaxing. “Even you,” he affirms, shooting you a playful smile. You return it with a goofy look, and he laughs.  
“Thanks, really, it means a lot to me,” you assure him, ready to go back to the movie [almost done by now, you can tell by the familiar bloody crescendo] when his hand bushes against your arm again, more hesitant this time. You turn to him again and are surprised to see the mulling look still on his face. You’d thought he’d gotten through everything he wanted to say. His hands traces up your arm, and your mind reels a little as it skims across your collarbone and slides up to cup your jaw. This felt- more than friendly, and you were unnerved, but couldn’t claim to have the experience or social skill to read, much less act on the situation. His eyes seems to spark as your breath hitches, and he leans forward slightly. 

“Do you want me to prove it to you?” he breathes, and you feel the gears shut down completely in your brain.  
“Wha-t?” your tongue feels heavy, and clumsy. He smirks, and leans forward even more, other hand brushing over your wrist, long fingers curling around it loosely.  
“Do you want me to prove it to you?” he repeats, as if it were obvious. It’s your turn to fumble for words, and you wonder if this is how 2D must feel all the time. You breathe out shakily, scanning his face, which sports a surprisingly devious grin. He had a tendency to be mischievous, but you’d never seen his face twisted like this before. Your stomach seemed to tighten and he leaned forward, face almost touching the skin where your neck sloped softly into your shoulder. You swallowed again, and he chuckled.  
“Is that a yes?” 

“W-Wha- how are you g- what are you going to do?” you sputter, and he laughs again, close enough this time to feel his breath against your skin.  
“What do you want me to do?” he asks, and you would damn him to hell for the sheer amusement in his voice if you weren’t shaking quite so much. He seems to realize what he’s doing, and back up slightly, lifting his face to be level with yours.  
“Sorry, this is a bit much, innit?” he laughs, more awkwardly this time, as if he’s finally catching on to how he’s acting. “S-sorry,” he repeats, “I just wanted you to understand how am- h- how you are, you know? Sorry, I’ll back off if that’s what you want.” He loosens his grip on you, starting to pull away before you catch his wrist. He stops completely, waiting for you to give some kind of ‘fuck off’ or ‘go ahead.’ You honestly aren’t sure which the better response was, but he was acting as the perfect mix of sweet and respectful and oddly intense and it was- nice. Foreign, but nice. You didn’t want it to stop, you decided.  
“Y-you don’t have to stop,” you told him. “I mean, you can keep going! I-if you want, I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want t-” the grin that lights up his face gums up your mouth and you fall silent. It wasn’t predatory by any means, just- happy. As if he was legitimately enjoyed that you were allowing him to continue. 

“Of course! A-as long as you want me to?” You closed your eyes and breathed, trying to get a grip on the situation. You barely realized you were nodding until his mouth was on the crook of your neck, hands returned to their original places, gripping tighter.  
“You sure?” he mumbled against your skin, lips crawling up your neck at a snail’s pace.  
“Positive,” you breathed. He -was that a giggle?- giggled against your neck and began placing firmer kisses across your throat, hands twitching with every shiver you gave off.  
“Stop me if you get uncomfortable, okay?” He continued, and you felt your face split into a smile.  
“Okay.” He picked up the pace again, rolling his tongue across your skin and pulling the flesh into his mouth before releasing it with a pop. He slid lower again and mimicked the motion at the crook of your neck, where it arguably had all begun, teeth scraping gently and making your breath speed up. You let out a shaky gasp and tilted your neck back further, exposing more skin for him to- but his mouth was off you now, and you felt an almost disappointment beginning to cloud over you. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to take it that far, he probably realized what he was doing and decided you were way too disgusting to- 

It returned with force, not on your neck, but your own mouth this time, barely giving you time to adjust before his tongue traced your bottom lip. You opened your mouth slightly, and he pulled your lip into his mouth, then moved to brush his tongue across yours. You startled yourself when you found your hands reaching up, sliding across his back and curling in the longer portions of his hair. He pressed even closer to you, a deep ‘hmmph’, pressed into your mouth as he slanted forward slightly. His hands brushed over your chest now, fingertips resting on your clavicles, and you felt a burn of pride when you remembered how male your chest was now, the deep scars marking where your breasts used to be seeming not to matter so much. He pushed slightly against you, and it took you a moment to take the hint, laying back against the couch as he continued working at your mouth. Once you were comfortable situated, head against the arm-rest and legs splayed out across the cushions, he pulled back, mouth sliding closer to your ear.  
“May I take your shirt off?” he mumbled, and you felt a flash of heat in your gut. You nodded, and his fingers were wandering down your sides now, tugging at the bottom hem of your pajama shirt. You wriggled slightly, lifting your arms over your head to help him out, and he let the shirt crumple to the floor behind you. He pulled himself up slightly, skimming over your chest with his eyes [it occurred to you he’d never seen you shirtless before. It also occurred to you that you couldn’t mind when he was looking at it like that] before pressing his hands across the scars, alternatively feather-light and kneading deeply.  
“Do they still hurt you?” he asks, and you shake your head.  
“No, they just look painful.” He nods and presses a kiss to the scar beneath your left pectoral before running his hands down your stomach and returning to your jaw, fevered, closed mouth kisses peppering every inch of skin his mouth could find.  
“Are you convinced yet?” he mumbles, and you find it within yourself to laugh.  
“I’m not sure,” you tease watching his face light up with the same smirk from before.  
“Well then,” he returns, tugging lightly at the hem of your sweats. “Looks like I’ll have to try a little harder-”


End file.
